The Wretched Game
by The Respectable Pureblood
Summary: Behind the scenes of Civil war, the Thalmor seek to assume control of Skyrim and further their ambitions of bloody domination. But at quiet docks of Dawnstar, from the ashes of Helgen and in the sewers of Riften; a revolution sparks, a thief dreams and a Dragonborn awakens. Plots, conspiracies, guerrilla warfare and more! Reviews adored.


**There will be plots! Lots! Thalmor spies. Assassin spies. Nord spies. More spies than you could shake a stick at; if you like to shake sticks at things. Thieves, anarchists, explosions! Rebels, revolutionaries and those along for the ride. Hope you enjoy! I even dare to hope for a review!**

* * *

Boeth Shadow-Born, determined and desperately poor, had encountered no trouble travelling to, and entering, Helgen. That was not hard to do, even with the Stormcloak Rebellion in full swing. Lots of travellers used Helgen as a rest-stop before Falkreath, making them the main source of income, so the inhabitants of the village were a lot more trusting of strangers than other places.

However, on that mild Last Seed morning, Boeth was not thinking about how easily she had settled in Helgen, or how she was already treated as a local. Above her the sky was almost white and cold and speckled with thin clouds that reminded her of wisp wrappings. Boeth was walking down the dusty main road of Helgen to the tavern, the second oldest building in Helgen, and thinking about Ulfric Stormcloak. Ulfric Stormcloak, the "True High King of Skyrim" and Jarl of Windhelm; the leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion.

Boeth was thinking about Ulfric Stormcloak, and on her way to the tavern for far a more serious reason than gossip or mead. And a practical reason, too. The practical reason was that Vilod would give her sixty septims and a bed for the heavy sack of firewood on her back. The serious reason was that a courier was looking for Boeth with a letter for her. This second reason was far more serious because the letter probably contained the current location of Ulfric Stormcloak- and her orders- and if anyone read it she'd probably be taken down to the bowels of Helgen's Keep and tortured for information. And then, she'd probably be executed. Naturally, not a thing she was inclined to let happen.

An Imperial Guard who patrolled Helgen's main street gave her a pitying look as she passed, but Boeth sunk into herself and kept her eyes upon the road. Her dress was patched and shabby, and her hair limp and worn. Her boots had certainly seen better days. However none of this mattered, because none of it was real. For Helgen knew Boeth Shadow-Born as Ilse, the new tavern-girl who chopped wood and swept floors. They knew her as sweet, simple Ilse. Boeth Shadow-Born, who none of Helgen knew existed, was an agent, a ghost and saboteur; a good one, too. She was also on the pay-roll of a mysterious benefactor with an abnormal interest in the True High King of Skyrim. She had never met her employer, nor did she know their name. Those things weren't important where a lot of money was concerned.

Boeth looked around furtively, allowing herself to slouch into Ilse's clumsy wayof walking as she approached Helga's Rest, the inn. Everything had to be different from voice to walk, if she wanted to keep her true self completely secret. That was the key to getting deep into cover and then disappearing like the wind. The door to Helga's Rest swung open on creaky hinges. She was enveloped with warmth and the richest smell of fresh, roasting Venison on a spit mingled with the sour tang of ale and sweat. There was music in the inn, too: something fast and cheerful on a lute, almost too fast for anyone to sing along to though a few tried. Most of the customers were local that evening with a few travellers mixed in.

Through the fug of smoke and bodies, Boeth saw Vilod leaning against the wall beneath a stuffed deer head. He was a middle-aged and typical-looking Nord with a beefy red face, lots of blond hair and an unsettling enthusiasm for drink. She set the firewood next to him and allowed him one of Ilse's enthusiastic smiles as he greeted her.

"I'll pay you for your trouble after the evening crush," said Vilod. "Divines know how many spills you might have to clear up tonight."

"Why's that?" said Boeth, grateful to put the sack of firewood down and stretch the kinks out of her back.

Vilod turned a guarded eye upon her when she asked, lips pressed together in a tight, thoughtful line. "It's good news if you're a loyal supporter of the Empire at least."

Boeth quelled her impatience and asked, "and what news is that?"

"Ulfric Stormcloak was captured a week ago by Imperial soldiers. They're bringing him here to Helgen, for his execution," and he pointed to a stocky, curly-haired man in Imperial armour. "That one rode here with the news, so the Keep could get prepared. Hope Tor's sharpening his axe up for that bastard," Vilod spat on the floor, oblivious to the slight tension in Ilse's body.

"There's a courier for you," he continued, jerking his head in the direction of a door. "Furthest room up there for the night. Probably a letter from some young lad, am I right?" he jibbed.

Ilse smiled at him, but Boeth frowned as she walked the length of the inn to the courier's room. If Ulfric Stormcloak had been captured she had a sneaking suspicion that she would be out of work. The courier was a timid, diminutive sort of man with bright blue eyes. He saw the curious expression on Boeth's face and knew that she was the message's recipient at once. With all the professionalism he could muster underneath the woman's stiff, frowning expression he handed the letter over at once.

"Here," she said, handing over ten septims. "For the wait I've put you through." He took the money, and she took the letter and stowed it away in her patched and frayed apron. The courier contemplated asking the woman if she'd like a drink but by the time he had mustered up his courage to ask, she was gone. Wouldn't have gone anywhere anyway, he told himself glumly and settled back into a chair.

Boeth felt a thrill of the ominous and of adventure when her fingers felt the edge of the letter. She wasn't sure why she had become an agent, nor could she remember exactly how she had started out. All she was sure of was that at seventeen, she had been an unromantic-looking thing (plump, too masculine a jaw, dark eyes, unruly dark hair) with a love of knowing things she shouldn't. Ten years later she was thankfully much thinner, a lot more cynical and yet as hungry for adventure, for forbidden knowledge, as ever. One might think that ten years of a dangerous job would make one prudent in picking their contracts. For instance, not accepting one that involved Public Enemy Number One of the Empire. _Some things never change_, Boeth thought to herself and slid the missive deeper in her pocket. She would read it later, when all were abed and no one could wonder why Ilse was burning letters.

"It was fire salts, I'd wager," she listened in absent-mindedly to two traveller's conversation. "Highly volatile in certain conditions."

Boeth felt herself tense a little when she realised the smooth, well-spoken accent was Altmeri, and it froze her blood. She had been wrapped up in the persona of Ilse when she entered the inn and hadn't even noticed the two high elves who sat debating with each other at a table. At least they weren't Thalmor, she didn't think. They were dressed in simple plain robes of dark cloth, that any sort of mage might wear. Far too shabby for a Thalmor, she suspected, though they could be agents: just like her. And it took an agent to know an agent, and what if they noticed her? What if they noticed and wondered why someone else was spying in Helgen? What if they decided to find out?

"Those guerrilla tactics aren't going to help anyone," the other high elf was telling his companion. His hair was in a high ponytail, his voice just as well-spoken as his friend. "Not everyone agrees with the Thalmor, but certainly we should all condemn these rebels and anarchists."

"Micalmo certainly cut a bloody streak through the Dominion," their voices were lowering to gossipy whispers. Boeth pulled a cloth out from her waistband and began intently cleaning a nearby table. They took no notice of her. "He caused quite the stir with some Elsewyr rebels. And I've heard that the last two Thalmor agents in Hammerfell were killed and that he was behind it."

"And I've heard," the other voice was the one that chilled Boeth and almost compelled her to stop listening. "That those who gossip when they shouldn't, receive appropriate punishment," it snapped. "We aren't in Skyrim for Micalmo. He'll probably blow himself up soon enough."

They definitely weren't your average traveller, Boeth decided and moved away before they could begin to wonder why a maid was spending so much time cleaning a table close by. She would have to watch them and hope that they didn't watch her in turn. The arrival of two suspicious elves whilst Ulfric Stormcloak was bound for Helgen, was not an omen that boded well. It was best to read her orders as soon as, and possibly send a reply.

"Gunter," she called to Vilod's other assistant, a beefy red-headed Nord who kept out any trouble-makers or rowdy customers. "I'm just going down to the basement for extra sawdust," she said. It was a good cover. The floor needed a fresh sprinkling of the stuff if there was to be a celebration, or commiseration as the case might be, over Ulfric Stormcloak's capture. He grunted his approval and returned to pensively watching the flickering firepit at the centre of the inn. Boeth wondered if he was a Stormcloak supporter, and made her way to the cellar.

It was a cool, oppressive place full of salted meats and barrels of mead and food such as carrots and potatoes. In one corner stood a dresser and a wardrobe, as well as Gunter's bed. Vilod had a bed in a room close to the bar and worked night shifts, so his wife worked during the day. A row of red apples took up a shelf as well as a goblet, an iron dagger and some strips of leather. Down in the darkness, and alone, Boeth took several deep breaths. If there was one thing her father had taught her, it was never to panic- to take deep breaths and keep her eyes shut until any sort of fear left. She whipped the letter out from her apron and opened it without hesitation.

It contained only two sentences, but these were enough to send Boeth spiraling into a quiet, but potent panic. She found herself trembling ever so slightly, unsure if it was the cold or the prospect of the orders she had been given. She almost wasn't sure if she was reading it correctly, and turned the letter over to see if there was anything written on the back. Of course there wasn't anything written on the back of it, Boeth scolded herself. She was acting like Ilse the silly tavern-girl, not Boeth Shadow-Born.

_Free him_, she read the letter again. Be _careful of two Altmer seen travelling together. A._

An 'A'. All that her employer ever signed their correspondence with. For the first time since she'd received the order to settle in Helgen and report all the information she could about Imperial movements, Empire gossip and Stormcloak rumours: she had to wonder who her employer was. With a glance upwards at the steadily-loudening tavern proper, she slid over to her bed in the corner and the little chest Vilod allowed her to keep a few personal effects. At the bottom of the chest was a steel sword, two sharp daggers and supple armour made of black-boiled leather and steel-fastenings. They were covered by a thick grey travelling cloak, a book and a purse of septims. She hadn't been able to fit her bow and arrows into the chest, and so they'd been smuggled to a bush, hidden beneath a rock, and checked on every week. Boeth began making plans. Plans for the rescue of Ulfric Stormcloak. Plans to get other Stormcloak Supporters of Helgen involved. Plans that didn't end in her execution, as well.

Could she free Ulfric Stormcloak? She'd certainly done some dangerous things before. It would certainly be a challenge. _I'd certainly die with one false move. _Boeth rested her hand against the chest, as if to unlock it. Thought better. Stood up. Closed her eyes.

She smoothed her shabby skirt and trudged up the stairs with a sack full of sawdust. Even as Ilse she avoided the two Altmer deep in conversation at the table, and watched them with a quiet eye. They carried themselves quietly and confidently. The stink of magic radiated from them and clung to their skin with electric power. They were certainly up to something, of that there could be no doubt. Arriving to Helgen with Ulfric Stormcloak only a week away it seemed, was not mere coincidence. But what was the reason?

Definitely Thalmor Agents, Boeth decided as she burned the letter later that night. Her suspicions had been right.

* * *

**Soo yeah. That's the first chapter, plenty more to come. I also have a thief, an assassin and ofc the Dragonborn to introduce. Some people might recognise the Dragonborn from Love You Madly. Also to come (later on) some plotting Thalmor and some revolutionaries. As well as the 'anarchist' Altmer mentioned in this chapter, Micalmo. Tell me your thoughts so far : )**


End file.
